six feet under
by OnyxSphinx
Summary: Seven years after their Drift with Baby Otachi, Hermann and Newt have gone their separate ways, but when Shao makes Newt her liaison to the PPDC and he's paired with Hermann for a study of the effects of the Drift, it's not long before things reach a breaking point
1. Act I

**Rating: high T/low M  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb  
Warnings: drugging, attempted non-consensual Drift, mind-control and related trauma  
****Summary: **

_"Hey, Doctor Gottlieb,_

_Just letting you know that Shao's transferred me—haha, transferred, more like fired —to the PPDC as her liaison, so, uh. We're gonna be lab partners again in like, 36 hours. Sorry about that. I just figured that you'd like a bit of warning beforehand._  
_Dr. Geiszler_

Hermann's mouth is dry; the Doctor Gottlieb feels like a slap — even when they were at their worst, Newt refused to call him _Doctor Gottlieb. Jerk, asshole, robot_ and a thousand other things, but never by his title.

His eyes are stinging again, ribcage uncomfortably tight. He reminds himself that he shouldn't feel this way — it's natural for them to have drifted; it's been over half a decade, and, regardless of what feelings Hermann may still harbour, Newt has moved on; he needs to respect that, and if Newt — Newton — Doctor Geiszler wants them to remain strictly professional, then Hermann will respect his wishes.

Seven years after their Drift with Baby Otachi, Hermann and Newt have gone their separate ways, but when Shao makes Newt her liaison to the PPDC and he's paired with Hermann for a study of the effects of the Drift, it's not long before things reach a breaking point."

_**This fic is complete, and in three parts. The next two parts will be uploaded over the next two days. This fic takes place in 2032, and is partially canon-compliant; it adheres some elements of the timeline, as established in Pacific Rim: Uprising, but is canon-divergent. The drugging is minor, and the non-consensual Drift is only attempted; additionally, none of Newt's actions are his own, given his possession by the Precursors. Though the novelization establishes that Newt is unaware of his actions, with the Precursors wiping/modifying/blocking out his memories, for fic purposes, he is fully aware but has no control over his actions. This fic is angsty, but has a happy ending.**_

* * *

The silence without Newt around is almost deafening, still, all these years later. Hermann's gotten used to the biologist's constant presence, and without his boundless energy, everything feels...muted. Hollow.

_"I'm sorry, Hermann, I don't think...I think it would be best if we...end this." Newt's hand jerks away from his touch, gaze fixed on the floor. His voice is subdued, but in that it's lacking anything. _

_Hermann stares, shocked. "I _ _—Newton, what are you—?"_

_Newt interrupts. "I—I've been offered a position at Shao Industries, and I just don't think..." he trails off. _

_"I'm sure we—we can find a way to make it work," Hermann's voice cracks, betraying the emotion behind his words, and he's—he's pleading at this point. "Please, Newton—" For a second, Newt wavers, something passing across his face, before his expression shutters, and he shakes his head._

_"I'm sorry, Hermann," he says, "this—we're done. Goodbye."_

_He strides away, suitcase in hand, leaving Hermann standing behind. Everything in Hermann screams at him to run after Newt, but Newt has made his choice, and Hermann will respect it. As much as it hurts him, he can't say that he wasn't expecting it._

_After all, people like him don't get happy endings._

The ring is heavy on the chain, the metal shiny from where he slips it on and off his finger when he's being particularly sentimental (when he indulges in an unattainable fantasy). It's a simple metal band, but the meaning behind it is momentous. It's made of scraps from the first Mark I, and on the inside is inscribed _You would do that for me? Or with me? _

He doesn't look at the inside often, because it brings back memories of lazy mornings in bed with Newt, his soft smile aimed at Hermann, warmth and comfort and _understanding _. He remembers thinking _This is too good to be true. _The irony is that, for a time, he actually believed that it _could _. That Newt actually wanted _— _wanted _him_.

Hermann drags a hand across his eyes, wiping away the tears brimming there, and tries to focus on the information on his tablet.

The data is on Drift-related studies; mostly at the behest of General Mori, but partially due to his own curiosity. He scrolls, pursuing the notes and occasionally highlighting something for further annotation. Suddenly, a quiet buzz from the tablet; a notification pops up on-screen.

_New message: Dr. Geiszler_

That, in and of itself, is a shock; he hasn't heard from Newt in _— _in _years _. Despite his assurances to the contrary, their communication petered out within the first few months _— _and every other line contained a reference to _Alice _.

It's not that Hermann begrudges Newt his happiness _— _far from it; if he's happy with this Alice, then Hermann is more than glad that he's found someone he can finally share his life with. Even if it's not Hermann.

He opens it.

_Hey, Doctor Gottlieb,_

_Just letting you know that Shao's transferred me—haha, transferred, more like _fired _—to the PPDC as her liaison, so, uh. We're gonna be lab partners again in like, 36 hours. Sorry about that. I just figured that you'd like a bit of warning beforehand._

_Dr. Geiszler_

Hermann's mouth is dry; the _Doctor Gottlieb _feels like a slap _— _even when they were at their worst, Newt refused to call him _Doctor Gottlieb _. _Jerk, asshole, robot _and a thousand other things, but never by his title.

His eyes are stinging again, ribcage uncomfortably tight. He reminds himself that he shouldn't feel this way _— _it's natural for them to have drifted; it's been over half a decade, and, regardless of what feelings Hermann may still harbour, Newt has moved on; he needs to respect that, and if Newt _— _Newton _— _Doctor Geiszler wants them to remain strictly professional, then Hermann will respect his wishes.

(Even if it feels like there's a hundred-pound weight on his chest.)

He closes the email and goes back to the data, forces his mind to focus on that instead of on the email, but he spends the next few hours more distracted than usual, gaze straying to the photo on his desk.

With a sigh, Hermann turns off the tablet, scrubs his stinging eyes. The lateness of the hour suddenly crashes on him; it's past one in the morning, and he's not in his twenties anymore. He stifles a yawn, tidying up his workspace halfheartedly, and makes his way down to his quarters.

His quarters are almost identical, if slightly less drafty, than the ones in the original Hong Kong Shatterdome. He supposes it shouldn't surprise him—the PPDC is technically a military organisation, after all, even if they've gone from Jaegertech-focused to a greater interest in K-Science and Drift technologies.

Not that Hermann's complaining. He doesn't _like _his job, per se, but it gives his life a sense of purpose he's not sure how to find anywhere else after having spent more than ten years at it.

He strips out of his clothes with a deft efficiency borne of years and years of practice, throws back a few pills to combat the twinge in his leg. He probably could get it fixed properly now, with the tech they have, but, odd as it is, he's...become attached to it, in a strange way. It's a part of him.

For a moment, he hovers between the conflicting urges to shower and to get straight to bed, but eventually, the lure of hot water wins out.

Once he's through with it, he settles under the covers, breathes in deeply, and tries to prepare himself for the—irrationally terrifying—arrival of one Newton Geiszler.

— _cold, why is everything so cold and blue and lifeless? He wants to scream, to run, but something stops him. His body isn't his own, he realises with a shock of horror. They've done something to him, taken him and shoved him deep, deep down into the darkness._

Hermann? _he calls. _Hermann, are you there? You've got to help me, please, I'm not sure how much longer I can hold on _—_

_With a terrible ripping noise, he _splits, _watching in mute revulsion and terror as his body jerks, head thrown back in a silent scream of pain. There's a pons set strapped to his head, and he doesn't know why._

_His body jerks again, fingers white-knuckled on the leather arms of the chair, and his eyes roll back in his head, before he finally goes limp. His eyes remain open, though, and they—they're glowing an electric blue._

_He stumbles back on weak legs, knows he can't escape, but if he can just get Hermann, tell Hermann, Hermann will know what to do, Hermann always knows what to do—_

Hermann snaps awake with a scream in his throat, tangled in his bedsheets. For a moment, the phantom sensation of tentacles wrapped around his limbs, choking him, makes his vision swim. He's shaking and his shirt is soaked with sweat, but all he can recall from his dream— _nightmare _is horror and terror and a sense of doom.

His first thought is _I need _Newton. Which is preposterous—he's a grown man. He doesn't _need _Newt.

Still, though, he aches for the other in a way he can't truly, fully comprehend—something about that Drift all those years ago took what was distinctly _Hermann _and twisted it about a bit, pulled loose a few threads and added certain others that read a bright, glaring _Newt _against the canvas of his personality.

_Fuck _, he thinks, and then bites back a hysterical laugh at how much his inner monologue sounds like Newt. Six years. Six years for him to realize how truly, fully, frighteningly—and probably, if he's being truthful, _unhealthily _—he _needs _Newt, like he needs air in his lungs to survive.

_Increased need for codependency is a common symptom of isolation from one's Drift partner _floats through his mind, and he buries his face in his hands, lets silent tears course down his cheeks. He hates himself for this—for this weakness. Six years. Six years, and he still hasn't moved on. He's pathetic.

He does finally drag himself out of bed, dresses sluggishly and splashes water on his face in an attempt to diminish the puffiness of his red-rimmed eyes. "Look alive, man; it's just an old colleague, not a death sentence _, _" he scolds his reflection. Staring the mirror, he suddenly feels so very, very old and tired. The stress of the Kaiju War has affixed permanent lines around his mouth, creases between his brows, and his eyes are lacklustre.

He wonders what Newton looks like—does he still wear those thin shirts with the sleeves rolled up to show off his tattoos, the top two buttons popped, a too-skinny tie hanging loosely around his neck, or has life as one as an employee of one of the most prestigious companies mellowed him?

It's no use wondering; he'll be seeing the other face-to-face in a matter of hours. The thought is both exhilarating and terrifying.

He sets his jaw and lets his expression fall into one of disinterested neutrality.

Hansen calls him up only a few hours after he gets to his office. "Gottlieb," he greets, expression unreadable over the static of the video call. "I need you in my office in ten."

"Of course, sir," Hermann nods, clearing a few papers off his desk and puts them in their files. Suddenly nervous, he starts, "Marshal, do you—?"

The other cuts him off. "Best behaviour, Gottlieb. We need Shao's support, and I can't have you ruining that by getting into one of your arguments with Doctor Geiszler, understood?"

Hermann swallows. "Crystal clear, sir. I'll be with you in a few minutes."

Hansen nods, ending the call. The room suddenly seems claustrophobically small, the glass windows boxing him in, and the faint blue light filtering from the cooler where he keeps the vials of kaiju-blood flickers, growing into tendrils reaching for him, choking him—

He blinks, and it's gone, but his legs are still shaky and he leans heavily on his cane as he leaves. Just in case, he locks the door behind him.

The Marshal's door is an elegant, dark wood, and Hermann tries to focus on this fact instead of his mounting anxiety. Even so, he tugs at his blazer and shirt anxiously, trying to find any possible imperfections and remove them before he has to enter.

Biting his lip, he raises his hand, rapping three times on the door, the noise reverberating slightly. After a few moments, Hansen calls, "Come in!" Hermann takes a steadying breath and turns the handle, pushing the door open.

"Marshal, Ne—Doctor Geiszler," he amends. Newton grins at him, eyes hidden behind a gaudy pair of crimson-tinted glasses. By his side stands Liwen Shao, poised elegantly, expression guarded. "Ms. Shao," he dips his head. "I'm Doctor Gottlieb, head of PPDC K-Sciences division."

Her eyes flick over him, dismissive, and she says, in Mandarin, "Doctor. How good to finally meet you. Doctor Geiszler speaks highly of you." Her tone is even, betraying nothing.

"Ah, he—he does?" Hermann asks, trying to cover his surprise. "Well, ah, that's...only good things, I should hope." He's floundering—everything he's seen and heard indicated that Newt should've put as much distance between them as possible; Newt's the head of R&D for Shao Industries, and Hermann is a physicist-slash-xenobiologist working a low-paying job for an underfunded para-military organization.

Hansen steps forward slightly. "Doctor Geiszler has been transferred to work with you on the Drift project you've been working on. He'll be helping you run tests and analyse data."

Hermann nods. "Well, then, N—Doctor Geiszler, I'll show you to my— _our_," he corrects himself, "lab and office. Ms. Shao, Marshal, good day."

He makes his way out of the room as quickly as he can without seeming like he's fleeing. Seeing Newt again has brought the dam in his mind crashing down, the flood of emotions pouring over like a tidalwave.

Newt is—different, to say the least; gone are the casual clothes, traded in for a sharply-cut dark ensemble, the sleeves and collar hiding any trace of his tattoos, and, with a sudden pang, Hermann realizes he's—he's missed the blasted things. Six years of no contact, and now, here he is, close enough that Hermann can touch, and yet a thousand times further away than ever.

Of course, Newt's out the door, following behind him within seconds, and Hermann draws himself up, squares his shoulders. "Doctor Geiszler," he greets, desperately hoping his tone doesn't betray his inner turmoil. "Ah, I'll show you the office and the lab."

He stares ahead, desperately quashing the want to reach out and grab Newt's hand in his own, twine their fingers together; Newt's fallen into step beside him, accommodating his disability as he always has, and Hermann's heart aches at the small gesture.

"Soooo, whatcha been doing?" Newt asks, "Did they finally get you an intern, or a decent set of projectors?"

Hermann starts at his words; it's an old complaint of his, and he honestly hadn't thought Newt would remember something so pedestrian. "No, I'm afraid they haven't on either counts," he replies, "it's...it's just me."

Newt flashes him a smile. "That must be great, dude—you finally get the peace and quiet you want without me around."

Hermann bites his cheek to stop himself from blurting _It doesn't matter to me, not without you around. I'd trade it all to get you back_. Instead, he says, "Yes, well, it's certainly...something. How've you been, Doctor Geiszler? And how is—Alice?"

Something flashes across Newt's expression at the mention of Alice, something like terror, but it's gone just as fast, and Hermann chalks it up to the lighting. "Good, good, we've been good. Hey, you should come over some time—Alice is eager to meet you."

Hermann frowns. "I'm afraid that simply wouldn't be professional," he says bluntly. "I would be overstepping the line." _And I don't want to see how thoroughly you've moved on _.

"Oh come on, man, it's _fine_," Newt cajoles. "I simply _insist _."

Despite himself, Hermann finds himself considering the matter. "Well, perhaps some time," he concedes. "But right now, I have data to analyse, kaiju tissue to do further research, that sort of thing. Please, follow me this way."

He strides down the hall, Newt at his heels, until he finally reaches his own door. The door doesn't budge when he tries it, and he frowns, before remembering that it's locked, and sheepishly pats his pockets in search of the key. "Sorry, I, ah, I'm not sure where the key is," he apologises. "It should only take me a moment—ah!" He finally locates the key, slotting it into the handle, and opens the door.

Newt hesitates at the threshold for a moment, an unreadable expression on his face, before he steps inside. He whistles. "Wow, dude, you've really let yourself go, haven't you?"

With a sudden rush of embarrassment, Hermann realizes that the office is—well, it's _messy_. Kaiju action figures teeter precariously on the windowsill, stacks of paper litter his desk and the shelves, and sheets of notes crumpled in fits of frustration gather dust on the floor around the bottom of the wastebin.

It's practically Newtonesque in its disorganisation. Hermann flushes, stammering, "I—it's not usually like this, I'm sorry, I didn't realise—" he cuts himself off. "I assumed we'd split the office—there's another desk and a computer there." He gestures to the other side of the room, which is significantly more tidy, and says, "I do apologise for the mess—I'll clean it up right now, and you can go down to the lab. It's just down the hall."

Newt nods. "Sounds good. I'll get my equipment set up."

As soon as Newt's out the door, Hermann begins frantically tidying up. What can Newt think of him, finding his office a mess? Hermann's face is burning in embarrassment _—_Newt's moved on to bigger things in life, become something _more_, and Hermann's managed to become a mess. It's pathetic.

Finally, everything is back to a semblance of cleanliness; the papers have been filed in various drawers, the crumpled notes _fully _in the wastebin, and the kaiju action figures shoved in the very back of his desk drawer. He breathes a deep sigh.

From where the cooler sits, hidden behind his desk, the vials of kaiju blood glow blue, and Hermann shivers. Something about them is _malignant— _which is ridiculous; they're vials of _blood_, and he's had them in his office for _months_, so it makes no sense that he's only getting creeped out by them _now_.

He bats aside the murmur of dread in the back of his mind and makes his way down to the lab.

Newt's directing various movers in loud, broken Mandarin when Hermann gets down to the lab. "Damnit, man, _careful! _" he shouts, giving up his attempts to communicate in their native language and switching over to English. Somehow, over the combined eight years he's spent in Hong Kong and various other areas of China, he's still not managed to gain proficiency of the language. " _Careful! _" he yells again, "that's state of the art, you bastards, it costs more than you'll earn in your entire _life— _"

He spots Hermann and makes his way over. "Sorry, dude," he huffs, "I swear, absolutely _no _respect. Anyway, I was thinking, we're doing stuff on the Drift, right? I was wondering if you know whether or not there's any of my Drift recordings from, uh, you know..." he waves vaguely. _The Drift_, he means, the one with the barely-living kaiju brain in a tank.

Hermann grimaces at the thought and shakes his head. "No, I'm afraid not, Doctor Geiszler_— _what recordings we _did _have were, as you recall, destroyed by yourself soon after Operation Pitfall, as, I quote, "they're fucking useless anyway." We'll simply have to dig up other data from Jaeger pilots."

"Yay," Newt deadpans. "Just what I wanted to do."

For a second, he's Hermann's Newt again _— _sarcastic and energetic and willing to look authority in the eye and tell them to fuck themselves, and Hermann wants to reach out, pull him into a hug, and say _I've missed you so much, please don't leave again_. The moment passes almost instantly, though, and Hermann berates himself for it. Newt is his _colleague_, if that; he's obviously a different man than Hermann knew, and it won't do any of them any good for Hermann to cling to ghosts of the past.

He swallows thickly. "I'll go fetch my—my research," he murmurs, making his escape.

* * *

Newt gazes after Hermann, wants to shout _I'm so sorry, please forgive me_, but they won't let him; the only reason they're even allowing him around Hermann is because—because—

He's repulsed by what they want to do, want to make him do, down to his very core, but they're too strong; he's one mind against dozens of others—not a fair fight in the slightest. They're allowing him these moments of freedom because they derive pleasure from his suffering, from the knowledge that, no matter how hard he fights, at the end of the day, they'll hook him back up to Alice and wrest away what little amount of control he may have gained.

They're going to use him to trap Hermann, and there's nothing he can possibly do about it.

Their understanding of _love _is minimal beyond their understanding that it's what allows them to bend him to their will. Threaten Hermann, and he'll fall right in line. _Weak_, they snarl, _so weak_.

Perhaps; but if there's one thing Newt's learnt, it's that six years forcefully separated from the man he loves has broken something deep within him. At this point, the only reason he hasn't died is because the Precursors need him alive to fulfil their plans.

A few times, he's tried to starve himself, but they just seize control and force him to eat and drink regardless. Any time it looks like he might kill himself or cause significant damage, they force him to the recesses of his mind and take over.

And now they want to do the same to Hermann, and Newt is powerless to stop it.

He doesn't even realise the blood dripping from his nose until he tastes the copper as it runs over his lips. With a jerky motion, he pulls out a handkerchief from his pocket, the liquid leaving a rusty stain on the pale fabric.

It takes longer than usual to stem the bleeding—a good three minutes, as opposed to the thirty seconds, max, when the neural overload from resisting them gets too great, and he wonders briefly if he'll just bleed out.

The thought is actually kind of nice, and it would be a giant fuck you to the Precursors—to have survived a thermonuclear warhead, only to be kicked out of Earth for good by measly blood-loss.

He almost pitches forward as a headache slams behind his eyes, vision spotting slightly with black. Without his permission, he strides forward, following after Hermann, hand straying to the knife hidden in the pockets of his slack, fingers caressing lovingly over the sheath, and he screams _No! _but no sound comes out.

They ignore his protests. _You are _ours _to control_, they hiss, and Newt wants to cry.

_Please_, he begs, _I'll—I'll do anything you want, just don't hurt him. I—anything, I swear. I'll stop trying to fight, just don't hurt Hermann._

Finally, just before Newt thinks all hope is lost, they stop and turn back towards the lab. Relief crashes over him, but they sing, sickeningly sweet, _Be a good boy or we'll gut him with your hands._

He nods frantically, and they finally loosen his grip on the blade. If he had the power to do so, Newt would sag with relief. Hermann's safe.

For now.


	2. Act II

Hermann keeps to his side of the office almost religiously; a part of him, the part that's an idiot and a feckless fool—the part of him that is Newton-that-was—wants to cross the invisible line, touch his shoulder and—

_Do what? _he questions himself angrily. _Don't be a moron. _Newt is happy—Hermann, no matter his own feelings towards the man, isn't about to ruin that. He's too important to Hermann. Hermann would rather he be happy with someone else than miserable with him—because, he realizes, looking back on it, that's what Newt was when they were together: miserable.

And the idiot he was, Hermann didn't even notice it, which is even more painful a realisation. That those hours spent off god-knows-where weren't because, as he claimed, he needed to oversee a biding on a piece of kaiju, but rather because _Hermann _was holding him back, making him feel trapped.

As much as it hurts, it's the only possible explanation for Newt's silences, his vacant gazes; the way he flinched away from Hermann's touch.

Hermann could cry at the realisation, but it feels pathetic to do so. What's done is done, and it's all worked out—Newt's happy, and that's all that matters. So he drags his gaze away from the hunched-over form of the other at his desk—prestigious job of no, his posture's still atrocious—and forces it back to the test results for a few of the early Jaeger program participants.

_Drift withdrawal _is the title of the essay, and it details various changes in brain scans of Jaeger pilots experiencing "Drift withdrawals"—most due to the death of their partner, and some due to isolation from their partner.

(The irony of reading this report at this point in time does not escape him.)

Listed as some of the common effects are things like _depression _and _increased paranoia_. Nothing he wasn't expecting, to be honest, but then, General Mori isn't asking for him—for them to shake up the scientific world with a brand new set of findings; she simply wants a comprehensive report on the effects of the Drift on Jaeger program participants that will be made available to the public.

From his desk, Newt makes a humming sound. "Have you got anything new?" he asks aloud, and Hermann shakes his head before realising the other can't see the motion.

"No, I'm afraid not, Doctor Geiszler," he sighs. "Nothing that we weren't already aware of. I might go check the archives, but I'm uncertain as to how beneficial that would truly be."

"Hmm," Newt hums again, then says, "hey, you never did give me an answer about dinner and meeting Alice."

Hermann freezes. "...no. No, I didn't."

Newt finally draws himself up in the chair to stare at him searchingly, "So?" he asks. "You gonna come over to my place and meet her, or...?"

Hermann's mouth is cottony, and, in a panic, he croaks, "Perhaps this Saturday?" and then curses himself, because what he truly wanted to say was _Absolutely not_. And then, because Newt's foot-in-mouth syndrome has rubbed off on him, instead of saying _Sorry, ignore that, I'm afraid the answer's no_, he adds, "I've got a bottle of nice '26 champagne that I can bring, if...if Alice likes that sort of thing."

Something passes over Newt's expression for a moment, like a dark cloud, before it disappears, and he says, with his usual enthusiasm, "Yeah, no she loves it." Newt grins at him slyly, and adds, as if an afterthought, "Dress nice—I know you clean up well, so if you try some bullshit excuse and turn up in grandpa clothes I will be _pissed_. Saturday, six thirty sound good? I'll email you the address."

"Of course," Hermann replies, ducking his head and staring vacantly at the word on the screen. Newt hums and returns to his own work, but Hermann's still scatterbrained half an hour later.

Newt leaves the office first, citing something Hermann can't be bothered to remember. The glow of the kaiju blood seems to have doubled since he last checked them, and he frowns, trying to ignore the shiver of fear that races up his spine.

Still, though, the glow is distracting him, and he searches the office for something to throw over the cooler. His gaze lands on the parka hung on the back of the door, and, with quick, measured steps, he makes his way over to it and grabs it off the hook, tossing it over the cooler.

The glow disappears beneath the heavy fabric, and he breathes a sigh of relief, sagging against his cane. Without the cooler distracting him, he finally manages to focus on the words on the screen.

Another hour passes, and he digs the heel of his hands against his stinging eyes, and cracks a yawn. If he can just set his head down on the desk for a moment or two, he's sure he'll be able to get up and return to his room...

— _rip kill tear destroy they chant in his mind, and he scurries away from them like a frightened mouse from a cat. Kill them, kill them all, kill him, do it, sink the knife between his ribs, it'll only take a moment, and then you can feel as his life ebbs away out over your fingers..._

No! _he shouts, trying to get away but blue tentacles are searching for him, reaching for him, and they're so, so close— _Not Hermann! Please, I'll do anything, just don't hurt Hermann!

_They pause for a second, and laugh. Kill him, they hiss, you must kill him, kill him now, do it, rip tear kill _destroy _you are powerless _kill him—

_The tentacles wrap around him, their menacing, electric-blue glow blinding him, and he's choking, lungs burning as he gasps. The tentacles tighten and tighten and _tighten_, and he's going to die he's going to die he's going to die and he's never apologised, but at least this way Hermann will be _safe—

_The tentacles drop him, and they laugh. You thought you could get away that easily? they taunt him. No, no, we're going to use you and break you and make you _suffer—

There's a hand on his shoulder, and he jerks upright, flailing and gasping, a line of drool dried on his parted lips, mind panicked. "No—no, no—" he half-shouts, disoriented, and then realizes the hand belongs to Newt, who's stepped to the side in an attempt to avoid his flailing limbs.

"Oh," he says, scrubbing his face, awkward. "Doctor Geiszler. I do apologise. It appears that I may have over-exhausted myself." He rises, then pitches forward as his leg gives out under him.

With a yelp, his eyes snap shut, bracing for the impact, but nothing happens. He cracks his eyes open hesitant to find himself pressed chest-to-chest with Newt. He's slightly breathless from having dove forward to make sure Hermann doesn't hit the ground, his slicked-back hair unruffled despite it, and Hermann wants to reach out and run his hands through it—

With a great deal of effort, he drags himself out of the other's grip, picks up his cane from where it's clattered to the floor, backing away as far as he can, only to realise that, as Newt's blocking the only exit, he's backing himself against a wall in the most literal sense. "Are you alright?" Newt asks, moving towards him, and Hermann practically trips over himself again as he scrambles back.

"Yes, of—of course I am. I'm fine," he says voice higher than usual, hoping fervently that Newt won't notice.

Newt narrows his eyes. "Nope, I'm not buying it," he says, advancing further, and there's only a foot or so left before he hits the wall. "You've been acting off, dude."

Hermann barks an unintentionally bitter laugh. " _I've _been acting oddly, Doctor Geiszler? How could you possibly know—you haven't spoken to me in _six years! _" The last part is scathing, and a flash of _something _is in Newt's expression again, something uncomfortably like _pain_, but Hermann ignores it and shoves past him. "Have a good _night, Doctor Geiszler_," he hisses, banging the door behind him.

It's not until he's halfway to his quarters that it hits him, what he's said; the bitterness, the anger of his tone. Newt doesn't deserve any of that. Hermann's wound tighter than a toy soldier, and he's taking it out on Newt, who's been nothing but a good colleague so far—hell, he's even invited Hermann over for _dinner! _And Hermann's done nothing but be unspeakably rude to him.

His grip on his cane tightens, and he blinks rapidly against the tears threatening to spill over. All of this time he's been the one unable to let go, hasn't he? No wonder Newt felt he was holding him back. No wonder he wanted to break up.

He sets his jaw. It's late now, but tomorrow, he'll go and apologize to Newt for his discourteousness, and then the day after that, he'll go have dinner, meet Alice. He'll see Newt is happy, and he'll finally be able to let go and move on.

With that thought in mind, he enters his quarters and crawls into bed, barely having the energy to toe off his shoes, and falls into a fitful sleep.

The next morning, he drags himself out of bed later than usual; his clothes are rumpled and his leg is ten times worse than usual. With a grimace, he throws back a few painkillers and debates whether it's worth momentarily aggravating his leg in order to change into a new, non-wrinkled pair of pants.

The consensus is that it is _not _worth it, as a shock of pain radiates through his leg when he bends it, making him bite his tongue. He does, however, change his shirt and sweater, opting to forgo the blazer, and drags his hands through his hair, desperately hoping that he looks, if not presentable, then at least not like someone who's spent hours curled under bedsheets, bawling their eyes out after a breakup.

When he finally gets down to the office, Newt's not at his desk, so Hermann settles into his chair, starting to take notes on the remaining Drift tests. The names are ones that are burnt into his mind; these are the brain scans and doctor's notes for the Mark I Jaeger pilots—these are the men and women who piloted the Jaegers programmed with his code.

Casey, D'Onofrio. Lightcap; the Gages. Pentecost.

More than half of them are dead now—the Gages to a kaiju attack, Casey to radiation poisoning, and Pentecost to the closing of the Breach. There's something about seeing their health reports, brain scans, and various Drift-related tests all these years later that makes him feel like he's thirty again, burning the wick at both ends.

He breathes, and the scent of the Hong Kong laboratory, of chalk and formaldehyde, fills his lungs; he can almost see Newt across the room from him again, mutely belting out lyrics as he hacks away at yet another piece of kaiju tissue.

Caught up in his mind, his leg begins to jitter, a nervous tic he'd thought he'd gotten rid of, and bumps the desk, sending a pile of papers tumbling off. "No!" he hisses, crashing back to reality, and carefully but quickly slides off of the chair and onto the ground, grabbing as many of the fallen papers as possible.

A few of them have landed on top of his coat, and, when he reaches to grab them, he notices that the coat's only half-covering the cooler; odd—he could've sworn that it was covering it fully.

He pulls the coat all the way off and pops the door open, and—

There's only two test-tubes of kaiju blood. The third test-tube holder, at the back of the cooler, hidden behind the other two, is empty.

His eyes widen. No one knew that those were there, other than the Marshal, General Mori, and himself—so who could've taken it?

The office door opens, and, panicked, Hermann slams the cooler shut and throws the coat over it, scrambling to get back into his chair.

It's Newt. "Are you alright?" he asks, standing awkwardly with the door half-open.

Hermann breathes a sigh of relief. "Yes, Doctor Geiszler, I'm fine." He settles himself back into his chair properly, fiddling with the cuffs of his sleeves under the other's intense gaze, before Newt shrugs.

"Whatever you say, man," he says, finally stepping fully into the office, and closes the door behind him. "Hey, do you by any chance happen to know where Raleigh Beckett's rest results are?"

Hermann frowns. "I think they're down in the archives, but I'm not sure. Why?"

Newt makes a handwavy gesture. "Just wanna see if Drifting with multiple different partners gives different brain scan images," he replies. "Nothing nefarious, I promise."

Hermann nods. "Of course—whatever you need, Doctor Geiszler. If I may, though—you might benefit from checking Stacker Pentecost's medical records as well, given that he, too, Drifted with multiple partners."

For a second, Newt looks pale, before he says, "Yeah—yeah, actually, you're right. Dunno why I didn't think of that before." He laughs lightly. "Man, Alice is right, I'm getting more forgetful with old age."

Hermann's throat tightens, but he remembers his convictions from the night before. "Doctor Geiszler, I'd—I'd lie to extend my most sincere apologies," he says quietly, gaze fixed on the floor. "My words last night were rude and unprofessional and I hope you can find it within you to forgive me."

Newt blinks. "What—hah, no, it's fine. I was being too, uh, _pushy_, sorry 'bout that. Old habits and all that."

"Yes," Hermann agrees. "Still, though, I feel at fault."

"All's forgiven, dude," Newt waves his hand magnanimously. "Just bring an extra bottle of champagne to dinner and we're good."

Hermann smiles, relieved. "Of course. And tell Alice I look forward to finally meeting her." It's a lie, but he's grown adept at those by now.

* * *

Newt smiles back, but it's painful; they don't quite understand how to make the expression properly, and Newt isn't exactly cooperative, which leads to them punishing him. This, all of this, feels like a twisted tragedy—they're taking the words he's thinking and twisting them, dangling Hermann in front of him before they rip him away,

He wants to tell Hermann _It's okay, please don't apologise _and he really, really wants Hermann to just call him _Newton _again, like he used to, but the rift between them—the one _he _created in an attempt to protect Hermann from them—is too large.

Above all, he wants to yell _Run, Hermann, please, don't come to dinner, please_. Because he knows what they're going to do to him; they're going to use Newt's body as a puppet and force him to attack Hermann, force him to link the other up to Alice, and then—

_And then we will destroy your world, _they snarl. _He may be broken, but his mind is more powerful than any other we've tasted_.

Newt jerks back, stumbling slightly, and grabs the door handle. Hermann's expression turns to one of alarm. "Doctor Geiszler, are you—?"

"I'm fine," Newt rasps, "just—just a moment of dizziness. I haven't been sleeping well." His fingers are white-knuckled where he's grasping the handle for support. "I'm—I'm fine. I'll see you at six thirty, yeah?"

Hermann nods, biting his lip, but doesn't comment. "Of course," he says. "I look forward to meeting Alice."

Newt smiles again, against his will. "Great. See you then."

_We will destroy him slowly, _they hiss as he walks down the hall. _We will break his mind and you will watch and then we will _—

"Shut up," Newt says, desperately, "shut up shut up shut _up— _"

They laugh. _We will win in the end_, they promise, _we always do._

* * *

**_End note: there is a more angsty ending written up that is canon-compliant with Uprising; it's the fourth chapter of the fic._**


	3. Act III

Hermann spends the rest of the day reorganizing his notes; out of curiosity, he'd rechecked Pentecost's brain scans against the other pilots'. At first, at least in the early ones, there's nothing significantly different—just run-of-the-mill neural-stress related increase of brain activity in certain areas, but after the death of his original partner, the scans get...odd.

There's still the activity from before, but it's almost as if it's...a ghost, or an imprint, on top of the new activity. On the off chance that it means something, he compares it to the other pilots who've lost Drift partners—and it's there. It's all there.

They all have similar ghost-activity, for lack of a better term—not ghost Drifting, because their partner is dead, but almost. Almost.

Comparing it to those with living partners who retired and went their separate ways shows _another _set of irregularities; check-ins for pilots are a mandatory, bi-yearly business, and thus, he has a decent amount of data.

All of them report various incidents of ghost Drifting that originally abated with the physical distance, but then got more intense, like some sort of withdrawal; a craving to initiate the Drift with their partner.

Hermann swallows, mouth suddenly dry. If that's something that happens with every person who's Drifted...then why hasn't he experienced it? And for that matter...how did it affect Newt? He Drifted with the kaiju brain by himself...is it possible that he did so again.

_Oh, no_, Hermann thinks with a dawning sense of horror. _He did. He Drifted with it again_.

Hermann has no idea how recently, either—for all he knows, Newt could be just a shell controlled by the Precursors, his own mind gone, or he could be absolutely fine, and there's no way for Hermann to figure out which it is.

And he has to find out; the fate of the world could depend on it.

Suddenly, the dinner seems significantly more ominous.

He gnaws on his lip. But how to proceed? If he acts off in any way, the Precursors—if it is that bad. He hopes it's not—will know, and the game will be up; any advantage he may have had would be lost. So: he's going to have to act natural.

He's going to have to act as if he has no inkling of any possible ulterior motives; like it's just a dinner between friends Drift partners colleagues. Though what his motives are, Hermann has no clue, but given what he suspects has happened, he doubts they're going to be pleasant.

This Alice, though, is...well, it's odd. It's not that Newt _didn't _have relationships before him, it's just, well, not to sound harsh, but...they never lasted longer than a few months. Even the two of them barely made it past the one year mark, as much as it hurts. And, apparently, Newt and this Alice have been in a relationship for at least the last three years, if not longer; Hermann's not sure, but the way Newt talks of her indicates they've been together for a significant amount of time.

So: a nice, clean suit, two bottles of champagne and his acting skills are the only things he'll have with him in the face of what could possibly be the shell of the man he loved is in love with still controlled by alien overlords from another dimension.

_Not bad_, he thinks, _I've had worse_.

He sleeps in, a rare occurrence, but it's Saturday, so he doesn't feel too terrible about it. He draws himself a bath, too, because, as the voice in his head that sounds suspiciously like Newt says, _Fuck it, if I'm gonna die in eight hours, I might as well take the time to enjoy a bath_.

And, well, the heat of the water is divine, honestly, relaxing the tightly-clenched muscles of his leg and easing the pain. The lavender epsom salt, which he's pulled out from it's spot hidden behind a really ridiculous amount of cleaning supplies under the sink, smells heavenly, and for a moment, he thinks of lazy weekends with Newt—

No. He mustn't. The water suddenly feels cold, and he shivers, clambering to his feet and pulling the drain and shampoos his wet hair, the strands sticking to his forehead, and scrubs his skin with the washcloth with a sort of detached efficiency, focused on the evening.

The hot spray of the shower head does warm his skin slightly, and he gets out feeling more relaxed than he has in a while, despite the looming possibility that the man he's going to have dinner with might actually be controlled by an alien hive mind.

Until then, however, he hasn't got much to do—he's caught up with all his paperwork, and he suspects that looking at any more data on the Drift will make him sick with worry.

So, in a bid to try and relax, he pulls on a pair of sweatpants, and old, soft sweater, and curls under a blanket on the loveseat and plays one of the audiobooks he's been meaning to listen to for a while, and pulls out his rarely-used sketchbook and begins to draw.

At first, they're just scribbles; quick strokes forming unintelligible shapes, but as he lets his mind wander, they begin to form shapes. The pencil scratches a wild shock of hair, clunky glasses askew, a silently laughing mouth, and a sadness in his eyes.

It's his last happy memory of Newt, he realizes; they'd been sitting on the couch, Newt's head in his lap as he carded his fingers through the biologist's hair, mussing it, and Newt had smiled at him, eyes crinkling at the corners, and said, "I'm lucky I get to be with you."

There'd been something almost...longing about his tone, like he'd already lost Hermann, but Hermann has brushed it off.

He drops his pencil with a clatter.

What if—what if Newt started Drifting with the brain _before _he left for Shao Industries? But then—then he'd have been Drifting with it for _years _now. Hermann claps a hand over his mouth, horrified.

All of those little things—and, of course, the biggest of them all: accepting Shao's offer—that weren't quite _Newt_, almost like it was a whole different person, that Hermann had brushed off or ignored—what if that was all the Precursors?

And if it was, is it even possible that there's any of _Newt _left?

There has to be. He refuses to accept the alternative.

By the time six rolls around, he's shoved the thought to the back of his mind, wholly focused on his search for the champagne. He's already found one bottle, but the other's eluding him.

Finally, he finds it, uttering a triumphant "Hah!"

Newt's apartment is a bit further away than he's willing to walk, so he calls a cab. The ride is long enough that his dread returns. What if Newt isn't in there at all—what if it's just a shell piloted by the Precursors?

The thought is terrifying, and even worse is that it's quite possible, given that Newt most likely began Drifting with the brain over six years ago. He tugs at his sleeves and checks his hair in his reflection again, trying to calm his nerves; if they realize he knows, then all is lost.

The cab drops him off in front of a large apartment building. Hermann checks the address again, and swallows. He tries to tamp down his anxiety as he walks into the elevator and presses the penthouse button.

The doorbell's ring echoes loudly in the empty landing. There's a moment of silence before the door opens, and Newt exclaims, "Come in, come in! Here, lemme take those for you—" and grabs the bottles from Hermann's tenuous hold.

Hermann follows him inside, leaving his shoes by the door, the tap of his cane muffled by the plush, deep blue carpet on the hallway floor. Newt leads him into the dining room, gesturing for him to sit. "I'm just gonna pop these in the cooler," he explains.

The table is set for two, and there's a screen covering part of the room behind him. Hermann frowns. "Won't Alice be joining us?" he questions, and Hermann shoots him a confused look before his expression smoothies out.

"No, she's busy with... _work_," he replies delicately. "She's getting back later than expected, so she said not to wait up."

Hermann shrugs. "Well, then," he says, for lack of anything better, and situates himself in the tall-backed chair. Newt returns from the kitchen with a plate in each hand, setting one before Hermann and the other at his own place.

"Steak," he explains. "Would you like a glass of scotch?"

"Er, yes please," Hermann acquiesces. Newt pours him two fingers. "Aren't you going to have any?" Hermann asks, when Newt returns to his seat without pouring himself any.

Newt smiles sheepishly. "No, uh, health problems," he replies. Hermann nods. "So, how've things been?" Newt asks, cutting a small bite off of his steak. Hermann chews his own and washes it down with a sip of the scotch.

"Not much different than how it was before," he replies honestly. "One would think that there would be a noticeable difference, but, other than the marked lack of impending kaiju attacks, it's fairly similar to how it was—I run the numbers, report my findings."

"And have your findings brushed away?" Newt guesses, and Hermann gives him a surprised look. Newt laughs. "Dude, they didn't value you then, and they don't value you now, either," he says, waving the knife in the air.

Hermann sniffs, taking another bite. "It's...it is what it is," he shrugs. "And it's not exactly as if I have people clambering to offer me jobs." He suddenly frowns. He's feeling slightly tipsy already, and the glass is empty—he knows he's a lightweight, but it seems his tolerance has become even lower.

"Another glass?" Newt suggests, and Hermann nods slowly. "You know," he says, as he watches Hermann eat, "you could always get a job with Shao. She'd be more than happy to have you."

The way he says it makes Hermann shift uncomfortably, and he murmurs, "I'd really rather...not. Oh, dear, it seems my tolerance really is shot," he apologises when he almost misses the plate when he goes to cut another piece.

The plate swims before his eyes, and he blinks, trying to clear his vision. There's a hand on his shoulder—Newt's, he realizes belatedly. "It's alright, baby," Newt says softly, breath hot on his skin, and Hermann jerks back like he's been burned.

"Newt, what are you—?" Newt cuts him off with a kiss, and Hermann stills before shoving him away. "What are you—no, I can't—Alice—" he stammers, head spinning, and Newt grins.

"She won't mind, I promise," he says, like he's imparting a great secret upon Hermann. Hermann opens his mouth to protest, but Newt's fingers are cupping his jaw, eyes dark with intent, and he's too far gone to protest.

"Just a moment," Newt murmurs, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to Hermann's neck, and Hermann lets out a soft noise of protest at the loss of contact when he pulls away.

There's something about his expression—Hermann's mind is too addled to figure out what it is, the room spinning before his eyes. He catches sight of the abstract painting on the wall—

Wait. Abstract painting? Newt would never—

It all rushes back on him, and he surges up, scrambling to his feet, wobbling slightly. He's been drugged, he realises. The scotch—that's why Newt refused it.

But it's not Newt, is it?

"No, we're not." The grip on his arm is tight, and Hermann hisses in pain. "Now, now," Newt—the _Precursors_, this isn't Newt—admonish. "Don't struggle, babe, you're finally going to meet Alice!"

His struggles are useless against them—Newt's body is significantly stronger than him in his drugged state, and they easily man-handle him back into his chair, snapping a pair of cuffs around his wrist, the other end around the arm of the chair, and pull back the screen.

It's a large tank, filled with a greenish liquid, and, just as Hermann feared, in it floats a kaiju brain. They grin. "Hermann, honey, meet Alice. You're gonna be the best of friends."

"Oh," Hermann murmurs, as it all clicks into place. They advance on him, pons headset in hand, and Hermann panics.

When they bend over to adjust it, Hermann sends up a silent prayer and, with all his might, headbutts them. They reel back, cursing, and with the last of his strength, Hermann forces himself to his feet, dragging the chair behind him, and leaps at the tank, shoving it as hard as he can.

"No—!" they shout as it slams against the wall, cracking, and tips over, the glass shattering on impact. "You— _you will suffer! _" they roar, voice multiplying, and there are fingers around his neck, choking him.

"N—Newt," he rasps, clawing at the chokehold.

"_Shut up! _" they snarl, but the voice is getting weaker, "_you cannot save him—we will kill him kill you kill all of you— _"

Hermann's vision is fading, the blackness creeping in on the edges of his vision. Vaguely, he tastes copper on his lips, a matching flow of blood from Newt's nose, but it's all hazy, like he's experiencing it through water.

His fingers go limp, dropping away, and he falls back into the black.

He wakes up. That's the most surprising part of the situation. He's laying on the ground, blood dried beneath his nose and on his lips, head throbbing. When he tries to move his neck to see the rest of the room, he lets out a hoarse gasp of pain.

"Hermann?"

Newt appears in his field of vision, looking terrified and trembling. "Hermann, are—are you alright?" he sobs, dropping to his knees by Hermann's side. Hermann tries to reply, but all that comes out is a croaking sound, and Newt reaches out to touch him before jerking his hand back like he's been burnt.

"Oh god," he says, voice high and panicked. "Oh god, Hermann I—I tried to kill you! Oh shit, oh fuck, Hermann, I—"

He curls in on himself, trembling, and Hermann reaches out his hand, weakly grasping his arm. "N...Newton," he croaks. "...not...your fault." The short sentence makes his throat burn, but he forces the words out anyway.

It's like a dam breaking; Newt pulls him up and into a crushing hug, tears flowing thickly across his cheeks and wetting Hermann's shoulder. "You're alive," Newt whispers. "Hermann, you—you did it, you killed A—A—" he chokes on the name, buries his face in Hermann's shoulder and sobs.

After a time, his breathing evens out, punctuated only by the odd sniffle. Carefully, Hermann runs a hand through the other's hair, some of his strength having returned. Newt sighs, relaxing against him, and says, softly, "Thank you, Hermann I—I don't know what to say. I spent—I spent all those years trying to stay as far away from you as possible so they couldn't hurt you, and—and even though I tried to kill you, you—you still saved me."

He lets out a shuddering laugh. "God, I was—I was terrified that you'd died, that I had killed you. But you—you're alive."

Hermann nods carefully, unable to say anything, and places a hand on Newt's cheek. Newt stares at him, confused, and Hermann pulls him in for a soft kiss. _Love_, he taps against Newt's arm in morse code, in an attempt to make up for his inability to speak. _Love love love love love._

When he pulls back, Newt's eyes are shiny with tears, and he says, "You—you still love me? After—after all of this?"

Hermann nods, biting his tongue at the pain of the motion. _Of course_.

Newt starts crying again. "I missed you so much," he mumbles through the tears, and presses his forehead to Hermann's chest. "I—six years, I was so afraid that they'd hurt you. I'm so sorry, Hermann, so, so sorry."

Hermann rubs his back soothingly, lets Newt's tears soak the front of his suit. The chair lays broken off to the side, the handcuffs still dangling from his wrist. The green fluid's spilt across the floor, shards of broken glass of the ground, and the brain sits in the puddle, half squashed beneath the broken tank. The room is a mess—Hermann has no idea how they're going to proceed from here. But for now, he's content to hold the man he loves in his arms, tapping a steady rhythm into his skin.

_Love love love love love..._


	4. Canon-compliant alternative ending

**_Note: this is the alternative, canon-compliant ending that picks up where Act II ends.  
Summary: _**"Three years later, against all odds, they meet again. Shanghai, this time—unseasonably windy, making Hermann's coat-tails flap, but he doesn't—

doesn't—

doesn't _care_, because it's Newton, and and involuntary smile breaks across his face as he calls the other's name. "Newton!"

Newton turns from where he's speaking with Ranger Pentecost. His eyes are hidden behind glasses tinted the same shade as his suit—alien to a degree that makes Hermann falter for a moment. But then he smiles, wide and uneven, and it's Newton through and through. "Hermann!" he exclaims, dragging out the second syllable out. "Hermann, my friend, how are you?"

* * *

He breathes, and the scent of the Hong Kong laboratory, of chalk and formaldehyde, fills his lungs; he can almost see Newt across the room from him again, mutely belting out lyrics as he hacks away at yet another piece of kaiju tissue.

Caught up in his mind, his leg begins to jitter, a nervous tic he'd though he'd gotten rid of, and bumps the desk, sending a pile of papers tumbling off. "No!" he hisses, crashing back to reality, and carefully but quickly slides off of the chair and onto the ground, grabbing as many of the fallen papers as possible.

A few of them have landed on top of his coat, and, when he reaches to grab them, he notices that the coat's only half-covering the cooler; odd—he could've sworn that it was covering it fully.

He pulls the coat all the way off and pops the door open, and—

There's only two test-tubes of kaiju blood. The third test-tube holder, at the back of the cooler, hidden behind the other two, is empty.

His eyes widen. No one knew that those were there, other than the Marshal, General Mori, and himself—so who could've taken it?

The office door opens, and, panicked, Hermann slams the cooler shut and throws the coat over it, scrambling to get back into his chair.

It's Newt. "Are you alright?" he asks, standing awkwardly with the door half-open.

Hermann breathes a sigh of relief. "Yes, Doctor Geiszler, I'm fine." He settles himself back into his chair properly, fiddling with the cuffs of his sleeves under the other's intense gaze, before Newt shrugs.

"Whatever you say, man," he says, finally stepping fully into the office, and closes the door behind him. "Hey, do you by any chance happen to know where Raleigh Beckett's rest results are?"

Hermann frowns. "I think they're down in the archives, but I'm not sure. Why?"

Newt makes a handwavy gesture. "Just wanna see if Drifting with multiple different partners gives different brain scan images," he replies. "Nothing nefarious, I promise."

Hermann nods. "Of course—whatever you need, Doctor Geiszler. If I may, though—you might benefit from checking Stacker Pentecost's medical records as well, given that he, too, Drifted with multiple partners."

For a second, Newt looks pale, before he says, "Yeah—yeah, actually, you're right. Dunno why I didn't think of that before." He laughs lightly. "Man, Alice is right, I'm getting more forgetful with old age."

Hermann's throat tightens, but he remembers his convictions from the night before. "Doctor Geiszler, I'd—I'd lie to extend my most sincere apologies," he says quietly, gaze fixed on the floor. "My words last night were rude and unprofessional and I hope you can find it within you to forgive me."

Newt blinks. "What—hah, no, it's fine. I was being too, uh, _pushy _, sorry 'bout that. Old habits and all that."

"Yes," Hermann agrees. "Still, though, I feel at fault."

"All's forgiven, dude," Newt waves his hand magnanimously. "Just bring an extra bottle of champagne to dinner and we're good."

Hermann smiles, relieved. "Of course. And tell Alice I look forward to finally meeting her." It's a lie, but he's grown adept at those by now.

* * *

When he gets back to his quarters, he's exhausted—more so than he had realised. He stumbles through his usual evening routine, eyes heavy-lidded, and nearly falls into bed, barely cognizant enough to pull the covers over himself.

He sleeps, and for the first time in a long while, it is devoid of nightmares—no blue-white, no pain.

_Everything is so hard, now, and he's so, so tired. He can't even scream, weighed—pulled—down, like a fly caught in a honey trap, and finally, he can't anymore—can't struggle, can't move, can't think._

_He slips down, down into the void._

Hermann awakens suddenly, but not unpleasantly. For a moment, he lays in bed, uncertain of how—or even _why_—he's awake.

Then, as he—_tries _to draw in a breath, he realises: his throat _burns_. The sensation elicited by the automatic reflex of swallowing is even worse, and, slightly panicked, he throws off the covers and rushes to the bathroom, stumbles as pain shoots through his leg.

Somehow, he manages to get to the sink, gulping water like a dying man. _Certainly_, he thinks, _I feel the part_.

The water runs over his fingers, onto the sink, down the drain, and he watches it dully. There's no way he can—_will_—see Newton or his..._Alice _tonight, not with the way his body aches, down to the very marrow, and he feels as if his lungs might catch fire at any moment.

He splashes water on his face—the salty tang is—_must be_—his imagination, his face is wet from water, not tears—and dries his hands, over his face, makes his way back to the living area.

With shaking hands, he pulls his phone off of the tiny bedside table, manages—just barely—to type out an email to Newton, hopes that he doesn't seem like he's brushing the other off.

_Newton,_

_It is with the utmost regret that I must inform you that I cannot attend dinner tonight; I've fallen ill, much to to my consternation—this body of mine was never hearty or hale to start with, and I'm afraid that it hasn't gotten better with age._

_Regards, and with my utmost sincere apologies—_

He pauses. Worries his lip, uncertain of how to end it, and settles, simply, for _Hermann_.

* * *

There's no reply.

* * *

When he finally makes his way out of his quarters on Monday, Newton is nowhere to be found, and Marshal Hansen says, "Shao insisted they had things to attend to."

"Oh," Hermann says, softly, and it's pained—not just from the sore throat. Hansen offers him a sympathetic grimace, and Hermann's gaze drops to the ground.

He swallows, the motion like fire. "Well," he says, hoping his voice stays even, "I suppose that's that, then."

Still, for hours afterwards—even after he's gone _numb_—tears still sting at his eyes.

* * *

Three years later, against all odds, they meet again. Shanghai, this time—unseasonably windy, making Hermann's coat-tails flap, but he doesn't—

doesn't—

doesn't _care_, because it's Newton, and and involuntary smile breaks across his face as he calls the other's name. "Newton!"

Newton turns from where he's speaking with Ranger Pentecost. His eyes are hidden behind glasses tinted the same shade as his suit—alien to a degree that makes Hermann falter for a moment. But then he smiles, wide and uneven, and it's _Newton _through and through. "Hermann!" he exclaims, dragging out the second syllable out. "Hermann, my friend, how are you?"

"I'm—" the default is _fine_, but the lie lodges in his throat. "Better having seen you," he settles on, instead, because it _is _the truth. "Do you have a moment to spare?"

Newton nods. "I'm all yours, friend," he replies with a sweeping gesture, and, as if an afterthought, says to Mako and Ranger Pentecost, "It was great seeing you, but I gotta skiddaddle."

Hermann swallows back the swell of emotion when Newt grins at him.

They fall into an easy silence, in step; Hermann lets himself bask in it, in the simple fact of Newt's presence, however temporary, and, for a few moments, he can almost forget their surroundings—can almost narrow down his whole world to just the two of them.

* * *

"No," Newton says, face—almost ashy?—lit by the blue glow of one of the two remaining tubes of kaiju blood. "Hermann, I have to stop you there—it's too risky—"

"When has that ever bothered you?" Hermann snaps, hurt leaking into his tone despite his best efforts otherwise.

Newton stills for a second, face going blank, before he says, "Well. Time changes everything."

_I suppose it does, _Hermann thinks, miserably.

* * *

And then, Newt's fingers are around his throat, and he's choking—

"I'm so sorry, Hermann, they're _in my head_—"

—and all Herman feels is the need to reassure him that everything will be _alright—_

—he calms, slightly, struggles lessening, and he's filled with a startling sense of _peace_—

—the gun goes off.

* * *

It's not until, days later, when he's faced with the sight of a bloodied, Newton-shaped being in a cell, draped in blood and finery, smile just a bit too _much_, that Hermann finally breaks.

The tears come without warning, but he still feels _hallow_.

"We should _thanks _you." It's Newton's voice, his eyes that blink at Hermann languidly, but it's _off_, it's _wrong. _It's not _him_. "Without _that _vial _of _blood three years _ago_, we would never _have _been able _to _grow kaiju _on _the scale we needed."

Hermann wills for there to be something—_anything_ at all—but all he can summon up is an _emptiness_, so he scrubs the tears away—they feel, somehow, inappropriate, like a glitched echo of what they should be, without the emotions they should have; black without white, light without dark; wrong.

"Such _a _magnificent mind _though_," the Precursors continue, cock Newton's head at him, "_both _his and yours—_a _pity we _never _got a second _taste—_"

The pain roars over him suddenly, a crashing wave, and before he knows it, Hermann's posture is ramrod-straight as he stalks towards the other, still restrained to the interrogation chair. Hisses, "I am _brilliant_—you cannot imagine the full extent. And I will _drive _you out of Newton's mind by whatever means necessary if it's the last thing I do."

His words are followed by silence. It draws a grim smile to his face.


End file.
